


The Long Night

by ErisYumi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Aunt/Nephew Incest, F/M, Fix-It, Incest, Mad Queen Cersei, Prophecy, Sane Queen Daenerys, The Long Night, The Prince That Was Promised
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2020-05-15 14:41:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19297816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErisYumi/pseuds/ErisYumi
Summary: "And what of the north?""The north is yours, my lady."*A season 8 rewrite where Daenerys makes sense and things make sense.





	1. Sansa I

**Author's Note:**

> I consider Ramsay and Sansa not to be canon. First of all, because it's not canon (it never happened in the books). And because it's out of character for Petyr to do something so stupid. However, I do imagine that something has happened to bring Sansa to the emotional point she is at in season 8. I have no idea what that something is, and I don't plan on coming up with anything. Suffice to say, she's suffered enough. As such, this fic is a mix of the show and the books and I'm hoping it will be the best of both worlds. Who is alive and who is not will be revealed gradually in every chapters.
> 
> The focus of the fic will be Sansa and Sandor's relationship, because I'm also disappointed with the crumbs season 8 gave us. I tagged the fic as Jonerys, but the romantic aspect of their relationship is not as developed as Sansa's and Sandor's for instance. I do not ship Jonerys myself, but it is one of the show elements that made sense, so I'm keeping it. If you are here exclusively for Jonerys content, this fic is probably not the best option for you, though it does have some Jonerys content. However, I am also a massive Daenerys fan, so if you are here for either Daenerys and her dragons being sane and alive, either Sandor/Sansa content, or a general rewrite of the long night, then you've come to the right place.
> 
> Enjoy!

A knock resounded against the door, detracting her attention from her task. Lifting her eyes from the parchment, Sansa’s gaze fell on the door handle; for just a moment, apprehension seeped within her. She had had no control over the pesky sensation, yet her blood had run cold at the intrusive sound, and her grip against her quill had tightened, almost threatening to snap it in two. Sansa had learned to keep such obtrusive thoughts away. As she exhaled deeply, the unbidden sensations receded almost as swiftly as they had come, replaced instead by the steadfast certitude granted to her by her status. She was the ruling Lady of Winterfell, and nothing again would imperil that. 

Rising from her seat, Sansa briefly glanced at her gown, expeditiously smoothing it over and made her way to the front of her writing desk. Her hands came to meet behind her back, and she stood with all the poise and grace befitting her birth. 

“Come in.” 

The door handle tilted as she called out, and a figure clad in immaculate white emerged from the opening. 

“Lady Sansa,” Daenerys Targaryen announced, “I hope I have not disturbed you. I was hoping we might speak.” 

Sansa appraised her guest; Daenerys stood as grandly as the day she had entered Winterfell, dismounting of her horse. The strength of her posture and the unswerving pride it revealed had not been concealed by the amicable smile stretched over her lips. 

Though she wore an amicable smile, it did not conceal the strength of her posture, nor the unswerving pride exuding from her. The silver queen’s attire was as conscientiously and attentively adorned as Sansa’s; while Sansa wore her leather and wolf-furs adorned with silver chains, Daenerys wore a gown of pristine wool with gossamer crimson threads embroidered in the seams of her shoulder-pads and tracing her neckline.  _Fire and Blood, was it not?_  The touches of crimson offered a contrast with the locks of silver-blond hair tumbling down her shoulders in subtle waves and with the pallor of her skin. They both wore their hair elaborately as well. Intricate braids decorated the crown of her head and tiny bells were hang in the juncture of each braid. A portion of Sansa’s own hair had also been gathered in braids, yet her style was undeniably of the North and thus simpler in nature. It was a style she had discovered anew and resolutely adapted. She could not recognise in what fashion Daenerys wore her hair, though the bells softly ringing as she tilted her head towards Sansa were unmistakeably foreign.  

At the very least, the queen had not simply entered unsolicited.  

“Do come in,” Sansa replied. 

The Targaryen queen stepped forward, “We had almost come to an agreement, back there, hadn’t we?” Though her tone was tranquil, Daenerys’ eyes remained every bit as fiery as the day they had met and Sansa had witnessed the expectant flickers dancing within. 

Sansa needn’t to pause to recall the heated argument which had taken place over Jaime Lannister’s appearance at Winterfell.  

“Lady Brienne has shown me nothing but loyalty since she has been at my side. I believe her to be trustworthy. I trust Tyrion as well.” The words were odd in her mouth: though she trusted the lady Brienne far more than she ever had the Imp, she realised she had meant it.  

An affable laughter passed Daenerys’ lips, “Would that I have such faith in him.” 

Sansa duly took note. Had she not spent time at court and had she not collided against high born of all manners of ranks and titles, the Targaryen’s girl composure might have puzzled her, her façade a disguise for Sansa to laboriously piece through in order to uncover what intentions laid beneath. Yet, now, her discernment had been honed to perfection. Sansa found it was easy for her to detect what she could not have in the past; though Daenerys had laughed her reply, it did not escape Sansa’s notice that her outward mirth had never reached her eyes, and it was all that was required for her to understand the answer she had received conveyed genuine veracity. 

“Surely he means well, Your Grace.” She did not truly mean it, for Sansa had not known her former lord husband well, and his reported actions as the queen’s Hand had been too volatile for her to understand; first, it was told he had joined cause with the Targaryen pretender, slayed and revealed to be false by none other than the woman sitting before her—though Sansa had her doubts regarding the boy’s identity. Tyrion had been pardoned, yet the rashness of his decisions revealed a wavering loyalty at best. Her reports had been much the same, until she had heard he had been named heir to Casterly Rock. She had not crossed paths with the Imp in years, and truly, she was not certain of his aim. She remembered his bitterness, she remembered the fetor of wine clinging to him as they laid in bed at night. He had diligently performed his duties as Joffrey’s Hand out of a sense of obligation, Sansa believed, and she wondered now if serving a Targaryen’s grand enterprise was truly his wish. 

The Targaryen girl stepped closer, her spurious mask almost crumbling as she did, “Well-meaning advisors will not help me win the throne.”  

 _And there it was_. That spark burning and dancing within her eyes, the flame of ambition she had seen in others before and which she knew to be devouring. Sansa’s doubts strengthened; she had been reluctant to allow her in Winterfell, yet had done so on account of the three dragons flying high above them and the tales of Harrenhal she knew too well, and because of Jon, who had spoken of her so well. And yet, her presence here inspired her nothing but distrust. 

 _And how fitting_ , Sansa thought, _that this dragon queen should have unruly flames in her eyes_.  

“I’m certain he will serve you well and faithfully. He has survived the Capital, after all. And, I may not trust his brother, but he has come to us willingly. Perhaps his intentions are true.” Sansa was much less certain of that, yet she had to intention of revealing it to the Targaryen girl. Withholding her own sentiments was an exercise Sansa had mastered, and so, her expression remained a polished mask as she spoke, allowing nothing but civility to escape. 

Daenerys nodded graciously, “If my lady believes it is for the best, I shall defer to your judgement.” 

The pieces of information scrambled together, turning into a picture waiting to be whole for Sansa to behold. It was difficult for her to believe that this queen, the last of her line, did not have profound faith in her inner circle. Sansa had done her best to learn more of the silver queen, and by all accounts, her world had been comprised of foes for the larger part of her life, with friends being few and far between. What true friends Sansa did have, she had gained at great cost. A small measure of relief seeped through her. Winterfell was her ancestral home. It belonged to her and had been reclaimed by claws and teeth, by blood and tears, and all those inhabiting it now had willingly swore fealty to her. Within the walls of her home, Sansa held an advantage the Targaryen girl did not. Had she ever felt at home, Sansa wondered. Did she feel at home now, in Westeros, the land her ancestors had conquered? The queen had not even yet set foot in King’s Landing. 

“Your Grace, if there is anything else?” 

The queen exhaled a sigh and a casual smile returned to her features. Then, she moved towards the seat fronting Sansa’s writing desk and lowered herself onto it, signalling Sansa to follow suit with a nod. Irritation stung her at the gesture, yet Sansa ignored it and returned to her own seat. 

“My lady, perhaps we might discuss our alliance.” 

 _At last, the point emerges_. The queen had returned to her usual composure, and Sansa had to refrain from raising an eyebrow at her display of confidence. Sansa let a charming tilt of her head express faint curiosity. 

“We seem to have much in common, you and I,” Daenerys said, “we have both lost people we held dear to the same house. They are my enemies as well as yours.” 

It was quite ironic that prominent members of said house had joined in with the north. House Lannister was all but broken, and all that remained was Cersei, the queen in the south. The mad queen, she had been dubbed, who had closed open passage in King’s Landing and had been cloistered there for nigh on two years. 

“We both have excelled in our position. Not all are accustomed to a woman’s rulership, yet we have done well with the circumstances we’ve been dealt.” 

Sansa allowed her lips to stretch into a thin, yet as sweet and elegant a smile as she could display. 

“And yet, I cannot help but sense we are at odds with one another. Why is that?” And the queen simply waited, expectancy painted over her features. 

Carefully pondering what words to say, Sansa made to speak. Yet before she could utter a single word, the queen outpaced her. 

“Your brother.” 

The queen had not meant it to be a question, but a statement. In truth, her brother’s infatuation with Daenerys was only a concern for what it signified for the north and was only one part of Sansa’s constant guard. 

Because the queen had been so forthwith, Sansa elected to do the same.  

“Your Grace, what are your intentions regarding this alliance? Here you were, down in the south fighting your war for the throne, and now, you have suddenly joined us.” 

Daenerys’ features hardened and she leaned in decidedly, though she did her best to conceal it. 

“I have come to answer the call to defend the realm I mean to govern. I have dreamt of the Iron Throne for all my life. I had never aspired to, at first, it was always meant for my brother,” her voice trailed off and she appeared momentarily taken in by her own thoughts, “but when he perished, it fell onto to me to regain our home. The home our ancestors had built. I cannot simply turn a blind eye as my lands are being invaded by these Others.” 

Daenerys’ revelations were like a feast to Sansa. She had had only to ask for the queen to nearly bear her heart. A part of Sansa was also relieved her pretences had gone, for she was tired of having to pierce through the mask that politics had forced upon them both. She could openly observe each shift in the queen’s feature, each inflections of her speech. 

“My intentions are not to manipulate your brother.” 

Sansa refrained from scoffing openly. Surely, she must know her word was not sufficient. Was she to marvel at the queen’s tirade? Nothing In her declarations had quelled her unease, and though it spoke of her devotion to the realm—something Sansa had come to understand well, it had revealed nothing of her other motives. 

Still, her courtesies would serve Sansa now, as they had always, until such a time as she may openly deal with this threat. It was her time to lean in, and she let a sweeter smile still lay upon her lips. 

“My brother tells me you’ve saved him, nearly at the cost of your own life. My apologies, Your Grace, I should have thanked you the moment you arrived.” 

“I have only come to aid in this war, Lady Sansa.” 

Sansa continued to smile, and said, “What is to happen afterwards? When the army of the dead has been laid to waste, Cersei lies dead... What is to happen then?” 

Sansa was exquisitely pleased to see the queen’s sureness dissolve as she listened. A subtle crease appeared between her brows as she appeared to ponder Sansa’s questions. 

“I take the Iron Throne.” Though Daenerys' face now reflected doubt, her voice carried certainty and spoke of how tenaciously she held on to her goal. 

“What of the north?” At last, Sansa allowed her own mask to crack open, giving the would-be-queen a taste of the wolf hidden underneath her pretty smiles.  

Following on her momentum, Sansa continued, “It was taken from us, and when we took it back, we vowed never to bow to anyone else again.” 

Sansa watched as Daenerys’ gaze hollowed when understanding dawned on her. Sansa had been forced to allow the queen into her home where she had done little but stroll through the castle as if it was her own, demanding allegiance from lords and ladies she had met less than a fortnight ago. She had ignored and neglected nearly all northern customs as if they did not exist, and Sansa wondered if anyone had bothered to school her on such matters.  _Has no one taught this girl?_  Though Sansa had returned to the old ways late, she had come to wholly adhere to them. The queen might be committed to her purpose, but Sansa would not let have her way. 

House Stark had taken advantage of Cersei’s absurdities to separate the north from the rest of the realm and had fared very well on its own since. They had been spared all the conflicts across Westeros; they had taken no part in the clash between the last Targaryens, the War of Dragons as it had come to be called. They had been spared the Ironborns as they too had used chaos to their advantage and raided the coast lines. They had turned a blind eye as the man named Euron allied with Cersei. And although they had allowed the small folk to come to them as they escaped the wars, they had closed their borders when the grey scale from Essos had spread across the south. They had ignored southern houses as the snows piled higher and the land dried and starved and died. The realm was as fractured as it had ever been in millennia. And now, the peace they had achieved was threatened by a foreigner. Sansa was forced to recognise they needed Daenerys and her dragons. What they did not need, however, was to submit to an outsider’s sovereignty.  

Sansa had no intentions of bending the knee. Not to any lord, to any king, and certainly not to the dragons either. 

She had once admired another queen who had visited these halls, and she too had strolled through them as if the very ground was bound to her will. Sansa had been a fool, then, and had believed her to be the perfect embodiment of all her childish fantasies. It had been a mistake born of her inexperience and naïveté, and it had cost her much. Never again would Sansa make that mistake again.  

“What of the north?” Her gaze bore into the queen’s as she waited. 

A moment passed in silence. 

“The north is yours, my lady,” Daenerys said. 

Sansa sat in stunned silence.  

Though used to retain her composure, Sansa’s lips had slightly parted in astonishment.  

“I will help you in the war for the dawn, then you will help me with my war for the throne. Then, I will grant the north its independence. I will renounce all claims to it and will no longer interfere in your affairs. You will owe the six kingdoms nothing, and your lands vassals shall be yours, to answer to House Stark. Crown whomever you will king. You, Jon. I swear it by the old gods and new, for as long as I shall live and as long as my lineage shall live. From this day, until the end of days,” The queen announced boldly before leaning against the back of her seat. 

Not in her wildest dreams had Sansa been prepared for such an answer. Daenerys was observing her intently, yet Sansa was too bewildered to answer right away. Her response had swept away all the schemes Sansa had begun mulling over on how to best remove the queen from her path. She recalled all that she had learned of her, and nothing she knew had led her to believe she would not require they swear fealty to her and bend the knee. Nothing had led her to believe the silver queen would do anything than unleash her dragons on Winterfell and reduce it to ashes amidst the falling snows, even though they were the last bastion standing before winter. It was impossible. It could not be. 

Could it? 

“Why?” Sansa had to know. She had to make sure it was not a lie. 

“Women in our positions must make the best of our circumstances. The realm has bled enough, we would lose too much if you and I were to remain at odds,” and Daenerys smiled. “I would not take from you what you have earned and reclaimed. I would have use unite, truly, in friendship and mutual respect of one another.”  

If she held true to her word, it would prevent yet another bloodshed, it would prevent the loss of resources meant to see them through winter. It would avoid the deaths of countless northern lives. 

The silver-haired queen rose from the chair, and Sansa followed suit gain, her awe too great now to question Daenerys’ behaviour. 

“Are these terms acceptable to you, my lady?” The queen gave her a knowing smile. “Or perhaps, I should say Your Grace.” 

It was then, as the queen’s words continued to resound and echo in Sansa’s head, that their meaning fully dawned on her. Daenerys had given name to all that which had grown inside her from the moment Winterfell had been retaken from their enemies. Sansa had never thought she’d one day rule over Winterfell. It had always been promised to her brothers, and when they had all perished, Sansa’s only hope of retaking their home had been via the promise of a husband. Had that husband not perished too, and had Jon not deferred to her, she’d have never found herself in a position of power. What dreams she had once nurtured of being a queen had been through marriage. It had been long ago, before those dreams had shattered and the bitterness of reality had replaced them. 

And yet, the day she had set foot in Winterfell, the day she had finally belonged to herself fully, she had heard the quiet aspiration within her heart. Her aim had become clearer, now; never again would she be traded to one lord or another like cattle. Never again would her worth reside in the promise of land and territory. If Sansa was to rule, she would never share that rule again. Winterfell was hers, and she was of the north, and never again would they be broken like she had been. 

“Done. Together we will defeat the army of the dead, we shall then aid you in your war for the throne, and the north will be left to govern itself.” 

The queen nodded at her, the same smile on her face.  

Sansa could not refrain from drawing an impromptu and unlikely parallel between herself and the woman who stood before her. Uncertainty seeped within Sansa. It would be utterly foolish of her to simply believe in Daenerys. She would have to remain wary and prepare for any eventuality. 

Sansa could not blindly believe in the words of strangers anymore. 

Yet if Daenerys held to her word, it would change everything. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based off the scene where Sansa and Dany argue in 8x02. I'm stil upset with that scene because Sansa and Daenerys have such great friendship potential, and turning them against each other made absolutely no sense. It was clear that Sansa was going to be dangerous if her leadership kept being undermined and if she continued to be disrespected. It was also completely out of character for Dany. Since when is being fake nice a synonym for diplomacy? Daenerys is too intelligent to do something that stupid. Anyway, I do hope this chapter conveys what I wished had happened, and I hope you guys have enjoyed reading it!


	2. Sansa II

Snow had fallen anew. 

Sansa pulled the wolf-furs of her cloak closer about herself, striving to cocoon herself deeper in its embrace as the wind howled and billowed in the battlements. Her auburn hair had been safely amassed in her hood and laid around her neck to keep her warm. She had walked the length of the battlements until what laid before her was the density of the Godswood, until its cottonwood trees was all she could discern amidst the whirling snows, and until the ramparts surrounding the woods had fallen from sight. 

Snow relentlessly drifted downward, governed by the whims of the wind. It was an endless shower of pristine motes, dancing in the pallid daylight reflected through the opaque layer of clouds which blanketed the sky. Detaching her gaze from the sea of elms and trees, Sansa glanced onward, peering onto the horizon. It had nigh disappeared; the thin thread stretched infinitely across the world as if evanesced in snow and wind as both sides of sky and earth had coalesced into a blend of matching colours. 

Sansa knew not why she had not simply left the confines of the castle walls to wander the Godswood, instead of observing them from afar. She knew not why her feet had guided her to walk the battlements in isolation, nary a guard in sight. She knew only that in the crisp midday air, the crunching snow beneath her padded leather boots absorbed all sound her steps made and that the wind silenced all traces of bustling life below. She knew only that in the depth of the wintery stillness, time stood nearly frozen, and her mind stilled at last. 

' _Winter is coming'_  was their words. An austere phrase which had stood as a warning for thousands of years. It was reminder of the night to come, of the lasting night which had always been bound to return. 

And winter had come. 

It was then, as she stood in the recesses of the snowstorm, in the stillness and quietude, that Sansa realised she had grown to see her first winter. She dared a thought; _I  pray to see it through_. It was not truly a prayer, for she had not prayed in years, not truly. Not since the last Lord of Winterfell had marched south to his demise. Not since she had become a political pawn, tossed to any and all and undermined as all hoped to acquire the reins of the north. She was not about to pray now, not truly.  

Raising her head, Sansa breathed a sigh, and mist escaped through her mouth. Though she had matured to embrace the northern ways and all that they encompassed, she had yet to entirely acclimate to the bitter cold. She blinked rapidly, chasing away the melting snowflakes which had collected near her eyelashes. Frost had formed upon her cheeks as well, no doubt reddening them, and she could feel the sting on her equally frost-nipped nose. Joining her hands together, she brought them to the lower part of her face, blowing warm air onto them and shedding some of the cold which had begun seeping within her.  

She could not tell how long she had been hidden here, but it seemed it was time for her to join the rest of the castle. If the dim sunlight was to be believed, she had well missed today's morning meal. 

Turning on her heel, she began her languid walk back. 

For the moment, a council called for her attention, but, perhaps she could arrange one of her handmaids to bring her something to her writing desk later in the day, and perhaps she'd find time to nibble on it as she'd scribble away and task herself with reviewing the pile of countless documents which awaited her. The day she had become the ruling Lady of Winterfell, Sansa had strived to put the Starks' affairs in order; It had taken days, to sift through rat-nipped parchments and to retrieve letters scattered without  care about the castle, or plain dissimulated by the previous occupants. So far, she had uncovered many a scroll, yet the task to put it all in order had burned away her time in spite of the Maester and her staff's assistance. Not that, her time was to be occupied by much more than these tasks, now.  

Pushing the tower's heavy door open, Sansa pulled back her hood, exposing her flame of hair and exhaled deeply as the warmth of the hold enveloped her, and she began descending the flight of stairs leading back to the heart of the castle. 

Sansa recalled her exchange with queen Daenerys. It had been merely a few days since she had proclaimed she would relinquish her claim on the north, allowing the Starks free reign over it. The news had flitted from mouths to mouths in whispers, until she had come down to the Great Hall, announcing it for all to hear, and then news had soared. She knew what remained of Westeros will have learned of it as well within the next fortnight. 

Sansa remembered how she had dashed to Jon’s chambers after her meeting with Daenerys. The news had threatened to spill from her mouth all the way there as she restrained the elation which had uncontrollably formed within her. She was not quite sure she had understood every emotion which had passed through Jon's face when she had told him, but stupefaction had been most palpable just before a joy matching hers had broken out, with perhaps a hint of incertitude within it all. 

She wondered what he had thought of it. Jon was perhaps the one who knew the queen best among all those present at Winterfell. 

Sansa suspected  his reasons for refusing the reigns of the north stemmed both from his disinterest in power— _and how ironic is it_ , Sansa thought,  _that in spite of it, he has steadily risen above his peers wherever he found himself_ — as well as his intention to remain true to the promise he had made Daenerys. 

The instant Sansa had laid eyes upon them both, the blatancy of their bond had been impossible to disregard. Jon's gaze had lingered on Daenerys just a moment longer than needed as he enjoined her come, an arm outstretched in her direction and his hand beckoning gently. Sansa might as well have been blind not to remark upon it. It had caused her anguish, at first, her mistrust of Daenerys causing her to worry for Jon and where he had placed his allegiances. Yet, now... 

She still was not certain the queen would hold true to her word. However, Sansa was preparing for the eventuality. 

Swinging the last door open, a cold shiver ran down Sansa's spine as she returned to the brisk,  winter air of the courtyard. She did not bother with pulling her hood over herself, as the air was not as biting down here.  

Sansa let her gaze wander over the men labouring over the wall reinforcements amid the ever-descending snow, working at narrow tree trunks, carving, forging, polishing, before  joining and attaching each individual piece together in deadly wheels of spikes.

As Jon had returned with his silver queen, so had the imminent descend of the Others onto the realm. They had not been given much more knowledge; a man Jon had called Samwell Tarly had ridden with him from the Citadel, with hints  far and few between. With what they had learned, and upon Jon's return, Sansa had immediately adjured  the forges busy themselves with the forging of weapons fashioned from the obsidian acquired from Dragonstone and had ordered trenches be dug around the castle and fortifications be  built.

And now they waited. 

“ _The Night is Long and full of Terrors,_ ” had the woman with hair redder than her stated, “ _There is only the Lord of Light, and the Great Other_ ”. Sansa did not quite believe in this god, for she had her own, yet the direness of the circumstances had forced her to consider the priestess' words.

All they knew now, was that the Wall which had stood for thousands of years had fallen, collapsed by the Horn of Winter. She had heard from Jon the men of the Night’s Watch believed the horn had been destroyed by the red priestess, yet tales of the day the wall had collapsed all spoke of a great booming sound which had filled the air and vibrated onto the Wall’s very foundations. The black brother who had told it during one supper in the Great Hall had captivated everyone present; according to him, the Wall had creaked and cracked and the sounds it had provoked had frightened all within, until entire blocks of ice had been seen breaking away and collapsing far down. Most of the Night’s Watch had not made it down, but those who had had spoken of blue eyes glimmering through the mist of the rubbles. 

No one knew the way to end the night that had come. No one knew the way to eradicate this long-forgotten enemy. All they knew was her house’ words. Winter had come, and the dead had come with it. 

Sansa breathed a sigh. She could see small bands of Unsullied in the courtyard, and a small group of Dothraki near them. Most of them had not been permitted within, as Winterfell had no way to accommodate Daenerys’ army, and Sansa simply had no trust in the Dothraki. Winterfell had been surrounded with barricades in order to both protect the castle and the soldiers dwelling at its doors, yet she knew they would be dead before long, and if the stories were true, they would only serve to enrich this army of the dead.  

Shaking her head, she spun around and continued on her way, back to the Council Chambers. 

— ✦ — 

It had become Sansa's custom to stand amidst her lords and ladies and keep her silence as they spoke and exposed their arguments. She had found doing so always revealed the pattern of their thoughts. Jon stood next to her as she listened. Sansa had hoped that, perhaps Arya would attend as well, yet it seemed she had decided against it. 

"... We must ask the Targaryen girl whether she intends to cede the Vale to the north, as well." 

_We might as well discuss territories now_ , Sansa thought. The Vale had been Sansa's since her match with Harrold Hardyng, and his... untimely death had not changed that. It had been one of Lord Baelish's notion, one that had not entirely gone as planned, as all schemes did when colliding with the will of other players. Sansa supposed she would be asked to cede the Vale, now. Daenerys would likely not tolerate her realm being any more fractured than it already was, though Sansa did wonder who next would be named Warden of the East. 

Ser Brynden, her great-uncle, sat around the Council's wide oaken table, as silent and sullen looking as her lady mother had described. The man was as hardened as could be and had found his way wounded and nigh dead to Winterfell. They had dressed his wounds and tended to him, and when the shadow of death had receded and he had grown onto his strength again, Ser Brynden had told the story of his escape from Riverrun. That had been before Daenerys' arrival, and before she had ousted this Lord Emmon and his kin to restore Sansa's uncle as the Lord of Riverrun. Her great-uncle had heard the news late, too late to brave the rising snows piling upon every road and every fields. 

Arnolf Karstark spoke, "Queen Daenerys will not surrender the Vale to us. She means to have every realm below the Twins. She already _has_ conquered half the realms below the Twins." 

The Twins were a smoking ruin and had been for long, now. Sansa wondered if she dared place any trust in Arnolf. Harrion’s sister, who had remained at Karhold, she did trust. As for him, she was not quite certain. Harrion Karstark, the heir to Karhold, had accompanied him. From what she had observed, perhaps she could consider trusting him. 

Their discussion moved on to knowledge of the realm; the concerns of all had turned to failed harvests before the snows had moved south. Each hold below the Neck seemed only modestly provisioned for winter, and had sent words to other Houses, pleading for aid in filling their stores. _Daenerys ought to be present_ , Sansa thought, _she holds half the realm's food and had more coming from across the Narrow Sea_. 

"What shall we answer, my lady?" Maester Wolkan inquired. 

All eyes fell on her; Lady Lyanna, and Jonelle Cerwyn accompanied by her younger brother. Eddara Tallhart, Lady of Torrhen's Square after her father had been slain at Duskendale. Mors Umber from Last Hearth who had stood under Stannis Baratheon's forces until all the Boltons had perished. Galbart Glover who had held on to Deepwood Motte with a firm iron hand after Stannis had reconstituted the castle to his House. Wyman Manderly too, had been a kind and amusing man, Sansa recalled, yet his deeds and his house surviving both the Boltons and Stannis was proof of his wits. It was the same cunning which she could now read in his expectant eyes. 

Winterfell's stores had been replenished for winter after the Boltons' downfall. the Dreadfort’s stores had been thoroughly emptied and its content carted to Winterfell. The Vale had provided with what it could spare, and the Watch had brought what they were able to salvage from their stores before the Wall had fallen even though they had too few people to feed regardless. "Let Queen Daenerys answer these calls. We shall pass on these letters to her." 

Lady Lyanna openly grinned. Lord Manderly's eyes shone the hardest; Sansa was certain he approved. The others also expressed their agreement, and the matter was settled. 

"We receive fewer mouths to feed each day, and the smallfolk seem frightened by the Dothraki horde sitting at our doors, my lady." 

"A small wonder." Daenerys had promised to contain her army, which insofar, had appeared to have worked. Whenever there had been incidents, Sansa had brought news of it to the queen, and she had resolved the matter swiftly.  

“What are we to do with them, Lady Sansa?" 

"Let them in. We have no reasons to turn them away." Besides, should anyone within the castle see through the harshness of winter, they should consider who will tend to the land and fields come spring. 

Then on, it was a matter of enumerating who did remain in the aftermath of all the wars which had ravaged Westeros. The list was quite short; After suffering many losses, Highgarden had yielded to the dragon queen as well as Dorne, and with that, the better part of the realm had been solidified under her. Asha Greyjoy—who now dwelt under their roof, gods be good— had ascended what the Ironborn called the Seastone Chair with most of the girl’s uncles either dead or gone from the islands, and once the waters had frozen over, the ironborns had been forced to cease their raiding. Sansa had been told the Greyjoys had still yielded to Daenerys’ sovereignty. Casterly Rock had long fallen under Lord Tyrion's rulership, though a castellan had been named in his absence, and Sansa wondered how long such an arrangement would truly last. 

Now that Arya had returned, Nymeria had returned as well, and at her back the largest pack of wolves they had ever laid eyes upon, and so the reports she had heard of outlaws and wolves alike prowling the woods had come to an end.  

With the snows, nigh on everything had come to an end. 

What time remained was used to discuss more trivial matters, until... 

Master's Wolkan's voice broke off, and as if the lords and ladies surrounding her had been prepared for this, their gaze turned to Sansa, a renewed solemnity and interest within them. She could sense the heavy weight of their gaze upon her as Lord Manderly spoke. 

"My lady, you say the Targaryen queen has sworn to return the reigns of the north to House Stark." 

The air had grown thick and heavy with tension, and Sansa's lips had turned dry. "She has." 

"Has my lady come to a decision regarding this matter?" 

Her fingers tensed at her back. It was a good thing no one could see it. 

"My lords and ladies have been kind to name me the Lady of Winterfell. It was a great honour, one I will continue to serve should you think me fitting." Sansa had noticed an odd thing, years ago; she knew half the lords in the room, if not outwardly knew, at least guessed at her intentions, yet the outcome of this discussion depended on which words she would choose to speak. And Sansa knew she had spoken befittingly. 

“I say we hear what Jon Snow has to say about it,” Lord Karstark spoke up, and all eyes successively fell on him, then on her, then on Jon. 

Jon had remained silent during the council, leaving her in her role as the Lady of Winterfell as he had before his departure for Dragonstone.  

Now, his gaze slowly rested on all the faces staring back at him before speaking, “My lords, I had accepted the responsibility of being crowned king for the sake of the north. My vows as a brother of the Night’s Watch normally prevented me inheritance, yet the Boltons had been defeated, and we needed order to rebuild,” Sansa caught sight of disappointing glances amidst the lords, “Yet, my place still is with the Night’s Watch. The Lady Sansa Stark, my sister, has given you order and prosperity. Let her rule in my stead.” 

Sansa knew this tone of voice; it was the tone he employed whenever he spoke to what remained of his brothers from the Watch, and the tone he had always employed during councils. 

“The Wall has fallen, surely you are absolved of that oath,” said Larence Snow. The man was also a bastard and had risen as Lord Hornwood when Stannis had freed him from Deepwood Motte. Perhaps Sansa should not be surprised he wished for Jon to be crowned king. 

“I’m afraid I am, my lord. The Night’s Watch's greatest enemy has returned, and as Lord Commander, I am sworn to defend and guard the realm from it.” 

Lord Karstark glanced at her, “Begging your pardon my lady,” then turned his face back to Jon, “yet, you would turn the crown away and give it to a woman, one younger than you?” 

Sansa bristled at the words and she had to refrain from rolling her eyes. Duly noted, Lord Karstark could not be trusted.  

“And yet she is a Stark, my lords,” Lord Umber spoke up, his voice loud enough to curve the heads of all those listening, “Ned Stark’s oldest living child.” 

“And still he is the one Robb named as heir,” said Lord Karstark. 

“As I’ve told you, my lord, I am prevented from bearing any title,” Sansa certainly admired Jon for his patience, “The time for urgency has passed, and I am no longer needed. Once, Stannis Baratheon had proposed to name me Stark, and I refused him for the same reasons I present to you. Lady Sansa has done fine work in my absence, and I am certain she will continue to do so.” 

“Lord Snow tells it true, we named him king to restore order and because we knew of no better candidate.” said Lady Cerwyn.  

“First, he gives up his crown, now he refuses it,” Lady Lyanna could always be counted on for her crudeness, “I say, let us give it to someone ready to accept it.” And her head brazenly turned to Sansa. 

“I agree with Lady Mormont,” Lord Glover joined his voice with the rest, “We tried to rescue Lord Rickon, and he died at the hands of the Bolton bastard. There have also been no traces of my lady’s brother, Bran. The boy is likely dead. Lady Sansa is the one to rule the north.” 

Out of the corner of her eye, Sansa observed Lord Manderly nod vigorously, “Aye, we northerners have bent our knees enough. If we are to bend it once again, our bones are like as not to shatter in front of what king, or queen aye, demands our allegiance.” 

Sansa noticed her breath had caught in her throat, and the pounding of her heart was resounding in her ears right alongside Lord Manderly's words. She dared not observe reactions around the table, but silence had fallen in the room as all listened. 

"Whether it be lions or stags, or dragons," his voice was thick with contempt as he spoke, "whether it be the bloody Boltons, we will not bend our cracked knees again. I am done with others telling me whose ass I must kiss." 

Sansa could have chuckled was it not for the intensity of the moment, and she listened and watched in earnest, her breathing still halted. Lord Manderly shifted his body weight, stared at all those standing round the table before continuing, "The North has only known peace when a Stark ruled in Winterfell. Is that not true?” Sansa heard approving responses being voiced, “If we all survive this war, then I know who I shall follow.” His heard turned to Sansa, “You played your part in conquering the north again, my lady. Your brother was the Young Wolf. You are the Red Wolf.” He paused again, and once more let his gaze sweep across the room.  

“We know no queen but the queen in the north, whose name is Stark,” he announced at last. 

She could not help it; Sansa was certain her eyes had gleamed at his particular word choice. He had raised his tone and his voice had boomed in the Chamber, and to her surprise still, when she curved her head and detached her eyes from Lord Manderly to finally observe the other's reactions, she found neither reluctance nor anger nestled in their eyes, but ardour and eager approval. 

She eyed Lord Karstark, appraising him, and though she was certain he could not be counted on, all she saw was a hard look, and measured compliance. The man would turn on her at the first opportunity, she knew, yet there were plenty of ways to remedy to that.  

And Lord Manderly cried out, _"The Queen in the North!"_  

The lords and ladies all expressed approval, some certainly louder than others, and as Lord Manderly had shouted, swords were being drawn from scabbards and raised high in the air. Shivers coursed through Sansa as they all took up the cry, _"The Queen in the North! The Queen in the North!"_ , Jon had joined his voice to theirs, and as she watched, Sansa let just a hint of a smile curl her lips. 

— ✦ — 

As she left the Council Chambers, Sansa resisted the urge to burst into joyous laughter. She had expected the outcome. Her bannermen had been plotting to crown another Stark since the very day her brother Robb had died at the Twins. Lord Manderly's vengeance upon the Freys had been proof enough of that, and so had been his failed attempt at smuggling Rickon back to Winterfell. The Boltons had never truly earned the loyalties of their bannermen, and the moment opportunity had presented itself, they had not hesitated to turn on the Freys and the Boltons both. 

To Sansa’s relief, only a limited minority had wished to stand for her brother. It was only natural they demand he take up the title he had once been granted. And it had been no surprise that Jon had refused. She knew him, and knew he had no design to hold dominion over the north. 

Sansa had been pleased to find Lyanna Mormont offering her support, as well as Lady Cerwyn. The war of the Five Kings had resulted in so many deaths, the only heirs of great holds left had been daughters or sisters. Sansa herself was proof enough of that. It had always awed Sansa, to witness a girl of merely eleven-and-ten  curl the head of all within the hall, and though her curt manners had irked her when they had first met, it had not taken Sansa long to warm up to the girl. She was surprised by her own reaction, too; the person Sansa had been years ago would have never admired a girl such as Lyanna.  

_The Red Wolf_ , they had named her. A smile stretched over her lips as she thought of it. 

Afterwards, it had turned to talks of when must this decision take effect and of arranging a crowning ceremony, which all had agreed must only take place once this great evil beyond the castle walls had been defeated. The smiths must need be informed, ravens must be sent through this swirling storm... What had remained then were only discussions of minor details; crucial accounts had been lost in the sack and Sansa must search for them, books required the Maester's attention... 

In any case, she would not fully ascend to queen of the north before the current situation had been resolved, and Sansa shook her head at the heap of tasks that awaited her. 

Sansa had reached the courtyard once more, when she spied a lean and small silhouette strolling across the stone ground, a direwolf paddling along. Sansa hurried, and the figure turned heel at the sounds her steps had undoubtedly provoked. 

"Sansa." 

"Arya." 

Her younger sister had turned to face her, hands joined behind her back, the same, enigmatic and knowing grin upon her as she had worn ever since their reunion. It was as if her sister had come to learn some obscure secrets, a knowledge she alone held. Her direwolf, Nymeria, had strayed a few steps away, standing and observing the men at work. As Sansa sighted the wolf, heartache gripped her at the memory of her own deceased Lady. 

"They've all missed you at dinner, you know." 

"We've all missed you during the council, you know."

"They'll survive."

Arya resumed her walk, and Sansa fell in step beside her, Nymeria padding ahead. 

"Where were you, anyway?" asked Arya.

"Taking a walk." 

Her sister let out a small ' _hm_ , an eyebrow softly raised at her, and left it at that. 

“Meeting went well?” 

“It has,” and Sansa smiled more openly than she had dared inside the chamber. 

“Something good happen?” 

“You will see soon enough,” she told her sister. Jon had argued whether a more public announcement should take place, perhaps in the Great Hall. Arya and everybody else would hear of the news soon enough. 

"Where were you going?" Sansa asked. 

"To the forge," Arya’s gaze lit up as she spoke. "I need a weapon forged."  

"Can't plain steel suffice your superior assassination skills?"  

Arya chuckled lightly at the jest. "I have Needle, but it won't be enough, you know it." 

As they approached the forge, voices carried back to them, and they passed through the doors. 

"... I'm sayin' it's a tricky material to work with is all." 

From the corner of her eye, she noticed Arya's gaze lighten once again.  

And then, Sansa's heart seemed to stop as she listened in. 

"You know who makes weapons for the wildlings? Cripples and cocksuckers." There was a brief pause as they both walked forth within the forge. Not a soul seemed to have taken note of either of their presence, until Nymaria bounded forward, and Arya's pace quickened.  

The voice continued, "Which one are you?" 

"You leave him alone," Arya exclaimed. 

Nymeria had padded ahead towards both men, just before Arya had passed the low alcove leading to the heart of the forge. She leaned against a beam, a hand casually draped over the pommel of her sword. Sansa’s steps slowed as she followed her sister, and she hang back at close distance, watching the Hound and this Gendry her sister had told her about. Though, Sansa’s gaze had fallen on somebody else. 

Sandor's voice had been as rough and low as Sansa had remembered it, and his speech still accentuated. His eyes widened as he stared at Arya, yet the trail of his gaze did not settle there, and continued its course towards her. His eyes widened still as he sighted her. She saw a world of emotion spawn there, yet, a heartbeat later, he was glowering at Arya.  

"You left me to die." He rasped. 

“First I robbed you,” Her sister’s answer had been expedient. 

“You could have shown me some mercy.” 

"And yet here you are. Feeling disappointed?” 

Sansa was surprised to see their exchange resembled bickering more than anything. She had not expected her sister to be on familiar terms with the Hound. She had heard of that story, however, of the pair of them travelling together throughout Westeros as he supposedly attempted to ransom her to their now deceased aunt. The irony of it had made Sansa laugh bitterly; they had been almost so close to a reunion, before her aunt’s death. 

They had all perished, now.  

Silence had stretched for no longer than a heartbeat. 

"You made it alive, she-wolf."  Sansa could almost swear a faint smile had passed over him. 

Arya side stepped around the Hound, giving a window onto which Sansa could continue to peer and study the situation at her leisure, and she saw her sister's lips were also thinly stretched. She continued appraising the pair of them; the boy, Gendry, had initially appeared startled by the presence of the ashen direwolf, her enormous size almost forcing him back a step, yet he now remained firmly rooted in place and had eyes only for Arya. Every uncovered inch of his skin was blackened by soot, and his tunic stood as equally begrimed as him. He seemed almost a man grown. Almost, or perhaps the tall, strapping figure of the Hound at his side had clouded her judgement. 

"Looks like you found your pup again." 

Just as Arya had tilted her head to regard Nymeria, the direwolf had done the same, and her sister's smile deepened. 

"She's no longer a pup." 

Sansa was surprised to find something akin to pride in the Hound’s expression as her sister spoke.  

And with that Arya's attention turned to Gendry and she sauntered towards him, leaving the Hound where he stood. 

Sansa promptly stepped forward. "Why don't you accompany me outside, my lord?" 

And his eyes finally came to meet hers, a gaze she withstood and returned. Then, he nodded his response, briefly, fleetingly, and she spun on her heel. She did not turn around, or cast a glance back, and simply listened in for his heavy steps following after her. Sansa noticed the strangeness of his gait as they stepped outside. 

After the oppressive heat of the forge, the chill of the air was almost a relief. 

"What happened to _ser_?"  

Sansa curved her head, her eyes boring into his. 

"You were no knight, remember?" 

He let out a chortle, though his gaze never fell from hers. 

“Used to be you couldn’t look at me.” 

Indeed, her eyes had not left him. Sansa recalled the almost hazy memories she had of her youth, when she had been but a girl and as green as summer grass. 

“That was a long time ago. I’ve seen much worse than you, since.” 

Sansa had forgotten where she was headed, had forgotten the hunger churning in her belly and her duties were gone from her mind. She shifted her body to face him better. 

"Would you tell me the story of how you survived all these years?" 

"Your sister told you how she left me pissing blood near the Trident?" 

_As foul-mouthed as ever_ , Sansa thought, "She did."  

It had been too long she had been near someone as blunt as him. All the smiles she had seen in the years behind her had been so deceptive. There was a certain sincerity expressed in his cussing, which despite the harshness of his bearing, had always made Sansa feel at ease. Court had been full of pretty smiles with empty eyes, and all that danced underneath was duplicity. At least, Sandor had never lied to her. 

The Hound's steps slowed as he appeared lost in thought, and he began telling the tale of how improbable luck had found him in the form of a Septry's Elder Brother, "It's twice now the bloody gods seem to take interest," he grumbled. That same man had brought him to the Quiet Isle, where his wounds had been mended, though as Sansa could see, a lingering limp had remained to him. Sandor scoffed as he came to this part, eyeing his leg with annoyance. Sansa observed his eyes as he did so; His left eye had always been partially buried beneath sunken, knotted flesh, and both had always cast a heinous glow at everything they eyed; at his brother, at knighthood, at the Imp and Joffrey and the rest of the Lannisters. At the world. And now, though that same glower was turned to his leg, Sansa noticed how its intensity had lessened since last she had seen him.  

"The Elder Brother kept me there and said I was dead to the world." Again, he scoffed. "Might be for the best, too." 

Sansa remembered how his helmet had been retrieved at Saltspans, though anyone she had a speck of trust in had named others than him responsible for the massacre which had happened there. Brienne, too, who had become her champion and whom she trusted with her life, had claimed the helmet's bearer had been slain, until another had come to become the _Hound_ after him. There had been very little accusations thrown to Sandor's face, as so little of the smallfolk had survived to seek justice to any ruling monarch, and surely winter assured any complaints would be swept underneath the snows. 

Their steps had led them back within the warmth of the castle's walls. Winterfell had never been opened to such a vast number of peoples, and the halls and corridors were packed with crowds; Stark bannermen and their court had come with them; soldiers were leaning against walls, ladies-in-waiting followed after one lady or another, and she had allowed freedom of the castle to a handful of Unsullied. Silence stretched as Sandor and Sansa continued on their way, though just where were they headed, Sansa was not certain. She peered at her side, and though Sandor stared ahead in the harsh way she knew well, once again she could not sense the hardness which she had always crashed against when she would come to him. He simply walked, his gait slowed to match hers, and seemed in no hurry to speak again. 

Sansa had thought to return to the battlements, where the quiet brought her such peace, and yet she found her steps had led them back to her chambers in the Great Keep's tower. Once they were in her office, Sansa went to the hearth, stirring the logs and letting a wave of warmth wash over the room. 

The air hung heavy against her with lingering thoughts unspoken thus far between the pair of them, and its weight slowed her steps as she went to fetch a bottle and cups. When her eyes came to look upon him, standing almost rigidly near the door, she knew he shared in her sentiment.  

He had not moved from his spot just yet and took the cup she came to offer him. With the snows piling upon all the roads and the cold turning the waters into ice, trade with the rest of Westeros had come to a halt, but Winterfell still had stashes of wine she had replenished after her return from the Vale.  

"Heard you were married to the Imp, then to some knight from the Vale." 

Sansa took a sip, "Not anymore." Ill fates had befallen both her lord husbands. Tyrion was here, within the castle, yet she had not spoken to him once since the day he had arrived at Winterfell with Daenerys. Her late husband, on the other hand, had not lived long after their union; indeed, he had not lived long enough to reach their bedchamber. Sansa was certain Sandor was dying to learn of that particular piece of the story, and she smiled knowingly. 

She found herself observing him and noted once again how the bitterness in his eyes had somewhat lessened. 

Raising his eyes from his cup, Sandor gave her a piercing glance such as the likes he had always given her during each of their encounter in the Red Keep. "Do you remember that night during the Blackwater?"  

How could she have forgotten? Sansa remembered the ghastly illumination of the emerald flames, and how he had appeared in the midst of it, battle worn and thoroughly inebriated. He had escaped the fire, and she knew now, had sought refuge from it and from his fears in her room. 

"You had come to seek a lady's favour to see you through this fray."

Sansa maintained her smile as she sipped from her cup once again. She hoped her words had not wounded him and would pass as harmless flirtation instead. 

To her relief, Sandor only scoffed and shook his head. 

"You always did need a lady's favour." 

At that, Sandor sneered gruffly as if he had been pricked. Sansa did not fail to notice the unexpected way his gaze had glided to the side of the room, when before it had been her who would turn away. She lightly shook her head, a soft smile upon her lips. Sansa knew better than this, now. 

"Your brother might have tried to pry it at all away from you. The valour of knighthood, the gallantry that came with it, the perspective of a Lady's favour... he almost succeeded. Yet all the same, you never hurt me, you've never beaten me. You had taken no vows of knighthood, and still you protected me better than most. It was our unforeseen kinship which saw me through King's Landing." Her dreams had come to die at the capital. She had been friendless and alone and lonely... expect for Sandor.  

Sansa had had years to ponder her time in King’s Landing, and she had found she had always wished to say those words. 

All the while as she had spoken, Sansa had set aside her cup and neared him with gentle and deliberate steps, and her hand came to rest upon the ruin of his face. His gaze returned to her, and she saw something heated dancing there. 

"He had almost succeeded... and yet, here you are." 

Her lips broke into a wider smile and her eyes bore into his. Her mind wandered to a particular memory she had so often revisited in her times of loneliness, and so, Sansa began to sing. Her voice had grown just as she had, acquiring a layer of maturity she had lacked all these years ago, and still, she allowed the sweet innocence which had once permeated her dreams to stream and melt into her voice; 

_"Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war, we pray. Stay the swords and stay the arrows, let them know a—"_  

Suddenly, his arms clamped down on her, enclosing her in a furious embrace before his lips crashed against hers. 

Sansa smiled in triumph through the kiss. His lips were cracked and chafed from the cold and his kiss was almost clumsy, frenzied, desperate. He clutched at her ferociously, as if the ground might unexpectedly vanish beneath them, and his hands pressed hard against her back, driving her body onto his. She surrounded to his embrace, and her arms came to wrap about his neck as Sansa opened her mouth to his. He was so tall, she had to roll onto the balls of her feet to be of a height with him, yet even then she pained to reach him, and still, the force of him drove her feet firmly to the ground again as he leaned more onto her. 

When they broke apart, Sandor exhaled a heavy sigh, his breath flushing her cheeks, and his body almost appeared to slump down as if a weight had slid away from his shoulders. 

" _Sansa,_ " He growled her name feverishly, and something stirred within her. He had never called her by her name. 

She was pleased to see the vestiges of the Hound stripped away; the hound helmet had been lost, and the man clutching at her so fiercely was the one who had hid behind it, behind the armour, behind the fear he had so wished to inspire in others. 

Sansa disentangled herself from his arms and her fingers came to twine his as she led Sandor away from her office and to her bedchamber. He did not object, letting her direct him until they stood at the centre of the room. Sansa only moved away from him to shut the door, and once she joined him again, his gaze never left hers as her fingers came to work at his clothing. They came undone under her hands, roughspun tunic and travel-worn breeches heaped upon the floor in disarray. No sooner had his smallclothes reached the ground that his own hands had come to cup her face and their lips were joined once again. 

Her own clothes required more work. Sansa came to lean against a wall and found herself enveloped in warmth as Sandor's arms encircled her, his fingers working at her gown with almost maladroit care. She saw the same greed nestled in his eyes as he unlaced her bodice, peeling the layers of clothing off her, until all of it stood heaped atop his own clothing. 

Once again, she led him across the room until they reached her bed. Sandor sat there first, and she joined him there, one leg placed at each side of him. His hands caressed her forearm, all the way to her shoulders before they came to rest against her, splayed against her back and pressing her harder towards him until their skin met. 

Sansa knew what she wished to do, now.  

Sansa's right hand came to palm the unburnt side of his face while her fingers connected with his chin, softly nudging it up until his burning gaze met hers. Another memory reached Sansa of a day he had locked his own fingers underneath her chin in an iron grip to bring her eyes to his, and she had had an open view of the ruin of his face. Though it felt like ages had passed since, the memory had remained etched vividly in her mind. Sansa had been entirely unused to cruelty, then; his rage had been too foreign for her to grasp, and she had not understood, not until he had spilled his secrets in a drunken haze. The same way his words had surprised her, at the start; all the world had ever offered her before meeting him had been kind words and kinder smiles. His had been a hardened and gruff exterior, which had confounded her. Sansa had not known what to make of him, her inexperience clouding her discernment of him and laid a fog before her eyes. It had stalled her understanding of what hid underneath the harsh and hateful words which always seemed to spill from his mouth. And it had stalled her understanding of the rage behind the damaged face. His cicatrices had been proof that such horrors did exist. But Sansa knew, now, what had driven each spiteful barbs, she knew now what to make of his constant approaches towards her, of the many encounters between the pair of them, and though he had turned his burns into a hardened mask of brutality, the same mask he had donned at her approach, Sansa thought that, even then, a part of her had guessed at the hidden hurt underneath. 

Sansa had not dared let her gaze linger on him since that day in the Red Keep. Now, she found that in the secrecy the dim light offered, she had ample time to explore him. She reached to his brow, a hand brushing away the scant strands of lengthy black hair crudely shielding his burns from the world, and Sandor did not stop her as she bared his scars to her. His gaze had never lost its fervour, his hunger had never abated. She observed the candlelights' shadows dancing and flickering upon every hollow of the sinuous flesh. Her fingertips came to rest against the fissures of his skin, her touch as light as feathers as she traced a path from hairline to chin, deviating slightly to reach where his ear had once been, and stretching to the edge of his jaw where a hint of bones were protruding underneath. Sansa continued in delicate, deliberate motions, wounding her way up and down the seared flesh, slowly, oh so slowly, until she could feel Sandor's chest heave with every breath against her, until his body trembled, and, underneath her thighs, she could feel him growing. 

Her fingers retreated, and as he exhaled, tremors coursed through him. She met his gaze once again and found his eyes were ardently watching her. Sansa curved her head, and this time, gently pressed her lips to his brow, lingering there for a moment; then, she began her descent anew, revisiting the cracked, moist flesh with her mouth, tracing the line where his hair had been seared away. Her mouth fluttered down above his left eye where Sansa guessed an eyebrow had once been, reaching to his temple, then the hole of his ear, until she had arrived once again to the edge of his jaw, and continued on her way to join her lips to his. Sandor responded to her with starving eagerness, his mouth greedily opening to hers as his hands pressed harder at her back, driving their bodies closer together. Her own hands came to rest on his shoulders, fingers tightening against the tense roiling ropes of muscles hidden under the skin, and she glided them further down to press them against the coarse black hair wiring down his chest. 

What caught her eyes then were the scars lining his body; one traced his collar, and Sansa understood she had never seen it for she had never seen Sandor without his armour. Though the scar was old, the flesh had not entirely healed, and Sansa traced it curiously. Another one was under his chest, deeper still than the one at his collar, and the flesh was pale and white.  

 “Is it pride you feel, when you look upon those scars?” Her voice had been barely louder than a whisper. 

“Used to,” Sandor breathed, “Not anymore.” 

His hands were everywhere, heating her skin with every caress, and another memory returned to her, then. It was of the day he had interposed himself between her and Joffrey and had dabbed at her broken lip. Though she did not wish to revisit the memory, the subtlety of his touch had surprised her as much as the kindness behind his gesture, then. Though he had held her so fiercely just before, his fingers were as gentle now as they had been that day as they slid against her thighs and reached the heat between her legs. 

Sandor leaned his back against the pillows, and though Sansa wished to continue caressing each of his scars, as she was certain no other had done so before her, the feel of him against the most sensitive part of her made her hands tremble, and amidst the disarray of her thoughts, all she did was hold on to him, letting her fingers dig into his shoulders. If she had been laid against the bed, she would have reached for the sheets instead. 

He nuzzled at her neck, trailing kisses down her throat and he lingered there just as she had on his scars. Her eyes had fluttered shut from the sensations, and when she opened them once again, she found heated eyes avidly looking at her.  

His breaths were warm upon her cheeks, and when they were finally joined, she found herself blooming under his touch, singing under his touch, and she allowed herself to lose herself in him and with him.  

Sansa remembered how she had once idealised the prospect of marrying. She had painted such a pretty picture of it, in her mind, and it had shattered so swiftly when confronted with reality. Of all the men who were supposed to share her bed, none had truly loved her. _It was always my claim_. Too long had she been deluded by pretty faces concealing black hearts and blacker intentions.  

It had taken Sansa long to understand that Sandor had been the only one to truly see her. All he had ever seen was the artlessness which had once inhabited him too, the innocence and kindness they both shared.  

The rhythm of their joining sent shivers course across her skin, down her back and into her very core, and when his fingers returned to her most sensitive part, it drew a cry from her. 

Her arms came to wrap around Sandor’s neck, "All you had was your vengeance," Sansa breathed into his ear, and his hand grasped and clenched at her waist, grunting from the pleasure and driving him deeper inside her, "I am here instead, now. You're no longer a dog, you never were," she was lost in the sensations within her, and her voice almost broke as she spoke, "You are a wolf, and you are mine." 

Her lips clumsily returned to Sandor’s, and it was as though she had forgotten how to kiss. Their lips parted, then joined again, and their kissing was both long and discontinuous as their joining became hurried. Sansa no longer knew where he began, and where she ended. She felt as though she was melting onto him and becoming one with him. 

When the moment of their pleasure came, Sandor embraced her as well and wrapped his arm around her back as the sweetest sensations swept over her. Sansa’s hands came to clasp against his shoulders and her eyes fluttered shut, and as she quivered around him, she brought him near, too, until he spent himself inside her with a sigh. When her own pleasure had passed, both his arms finally wrapped around her, clutching her in an embrace that drove them hard together.  

Time stretched, and they remained immured in their hold of one another, sighing as they regained their breaths. She had leaned into his forehead, and once again she could feel him sign as he regained his breathing. 

Finally, gradually, they detangled themselves from their embrace, and Sandor reclined fully against the bed, exhaling hard as he did. Pulling the furs over their legs for warmth, she followed him down and laid against his chest. 

Sansa had never seen Sandor so still. Her hands finally came to trace the rest of his scars, like she had wished to, and his eyes remained shut all the while. He had held her so strongly, just before, and her waist still tingled faintly from his touch, yet now, he laid motionless on the sheets. His breathing was slowed and silent, and when she gazed upon his face, the knots of bitterness of his features had gone away. 

His eyes opening slowly, Sandor’s arms came to cross behind his head, “That night, he began, “in the Red Keep.” 

Sansa propped herself on her elbow to regard him better. 

“The Imp, Littlefinger, the Vale, the Boltons... None of it would have happened if you’d have come with me.” 

She remembered how he had begun to speak of it, just before, and understood that he had wished to discuss it, yet she had not given him the time. Languidly, her fingers traced a path across his ribs and towards the centre of his chest, where her hand came to rest. “I did often wonder whether it’d have been wiser to join you, then, as you had offered.” 

The thought had crossed her mind most in her times of uncertainty, when she had been on the verge of losing her faith she would ever return home. Sansa had often wondered what had become of him, too. When her sister had told her of their travelling together, Sansa had understood she would not have fared well upon the road; it was an environment Arya had been made for, not Sansa.

“My journey was arduous and brought me much pain, and yet it has also brought me here,” she gave him a meaningful look, “without all of it, I would not be where I am now.” 

Their gaze crossed, and she found the harshness in his eyes had dissipated, too. She had no doubt the hatred he had once known would forever remain a memory, yet she remembered how she had once prayed for him, for the rage in his heart to be soothed, and now, that wish had been fulfilled. He gave her a small nod, and for one sweet moment, Sansa found she did not have to care for matters of the realm, for matters of the heart were her only concern this night.  

A smile stretched her lips, and Sandor’s arm came to rest against her back, his hand tracing gentle motions from her shoulder blades to the small of her back, and when she laid her head against him once again, her eyes shut close in contentment. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I hope you all enjoyed this new chapter and enjoyed the Sansa/Sandor content! :)
> 
> Some names for those who did not read the books or simply do not remember:
> 
> Out of an intricate family tree and unfortunate circumstances, Harrold Hardyng was the heir to the Vale should Robert die, and unlike in the show (ugh), Petyr was plotting to marry Sansa to him in order for her to retake Winterfell.  
> Ser Brynden is more commonly known as the Blackfish. He appears in the series when Jaime uses Edmure, Cat's brother, to capture Riverrun. In the books, he had escaped during the capture and his whereabouts are unknown. He is Sansa's great-uncle (Cat's uncle).  
> Lord Emmon is a Frey married to a Lannister, Lady Genna (she's quite nice, by the way), and him and his family have been granted Riverrun by the crown when Riverrun was taken.  
> Mors Umber is the uncle of Lord Umber (Greatjon). Because the Greatjon was a captive at the Twins, my headcanon is that he died. His son died during the Wed Wedding, so no heir were left behind. Hother Umber, who is alive in the book, is also dead in my headcanon, killed when the Boltons were overthrown.  
> Other characters are just minor lords for other houses. In the books, Lyanna is not the ruling lady of Bear Island, but I decided to ignore that particular detail because we know next to nothing of Lady Maege and Lyanna became a much more dynamic character in the series, so I just decided to stick with Lyanna being the ruling lady of Bear Island.


	3. Daenerys I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure I was going to post this chapter now because of the hit count update. For those who don't know, guest hits won't be counted anymore to avoid overload of the AO3 servers. Still, since this chapter is all ready and I'm already working on the two next ones, I thought I might as well give you guys this. If that's okay, I'd like to ask readers without an account to let me know what you thought of the chapter in the comments. Even a super short phrase would be fine, it's just so that I have some trace of your passage here, since now I won't know about it otherwise.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

An algid chill had crept within Daenerys.

As she struggled for breath against the sharp wind, Dany tilted her head low as she had learned to do, burying her face as closely as she could amidst the thorny spikes upon Drogon’s wiry neck, before tentatively sucking in a breath. The crisp air was harsh in her lungs and burnt as she breathed.

White.

White as far as her eyes could see.

Daenerys was unused to conditions such as these; Her exile in Essos had taken her to sweltering cities and arid lands where the earth cracked beneath her boots. Then, her arrival at Westeros had taken her to Sunspear, where the weather had been temperate, and she had been told winter had come to chase away the warmth from Dorne. The salt and ash of Dragonstone had also tempered such heat, and her journey to Highgarden had been colder still, for the castle had not quite lived up to its name and the roads bordering it had no roses growing from underneath the snow piled high.   


And yet, nothing had prepared her for the sea of white before her eyes nor for the chill which lingered in her bones and refused to melt away no matter how close she stood to the hearth.

Drogon’s wings spread wide open to carve a path through the air. The wind whistled and beat against her ear as he began his descent. Seated upon his back, Daenerys had been given the world in ways she had never dreamt possible; the landscape stretched far and wide beneath them, endless moors and meadows blanketed in white,  and everything below was reduced to minute size.

Daenerys remembered words spoken long ago, when she had told Drogo he had given her the wind, the day she had been gifted her silver. Riding upon the filly had been exhilarating, yet nothing she had ever experienced had compared to her first flight with Drogon. Nothing had compared to the soaring wind in her hair and the sun in her eyes, the scales of his back scintillating in the light and the scarlet brought to life in a thousand different shades. 

She was the mother of dragons, and it was only fitting for her to ride upon a dragon’s back. Whenever she’d join Drogon in the air, her whole body flew as he did. She rode upon the wind, and each time she adjusted her position to match the dragon’s flight pattern, exhilaration filled her as she floated free. Each time she was in the air with him, her troubles would remain on the ground far below.

Tilting her head, Dany observed the scenery. The sinuous roads underneath had once again vanished under a coating of pristine snow. She could not see anything but an unending curtain of white... at the exception of Winterfell. The castle stood at the heart of the snows, a patch of inky blackness dotting its surface. Drogon was ascending in its direction; it was in the dragons’ first hunt in this desolated land that they had learned to recognise the place as home.

_ Home_.

Was the castle standing in the heart of winter her home, now? Was it to be the only home she would ever know?

Just as they neared the ground and the view below sharpened, a fierce roar pierced the silence of the skies far at their left side. Its sound carried far, seemingly bending the very air around her and shaking her  heart as it made its way into her very bones. Daenerys curved her head to find Rhaegal soaring towards them. Though he had remained at a distance not to crash against his brother, the size of him was so that she could distinguish nearly every detail of his scaled head, and the emerald of his scales reflected dimly in what little light the world still held. Drogon answered his brother’s call with a roar of his own, and together, they plunged towards Winterfell.

Through half-lidded eyes, details which had previously been invisible from so  high  above began to form; abandoned cottages and shacks of thatched roofs dappled the ground surrounding the castle. Daenerys knew they were abandoned, for the common folk had come to Winterfell for refuge. As she narrowed her eyes, worry filled her when she saw uncertain shapes roaming upon the snow.

Minutes afterwards, Daenerys braced herself as Drogon’s rear talons, then front talons collided against solid ground in a tremor that vibrated onto the very earth and bent the ground under the immensity of the dragon’s strength.

He had landed not far from the portcullis, and as Daenerys made her way down, she peered through the  arrowslits dotting the gates and saw archers rashly retreating at the sight of them, the boldest of them scarcely daring a glance at Drogon.

_ No_, Dany thought,  _ such a place was hardly home_.

And yet, she had only been here for over one turn of the moon. It had taken her much longer to build her great army, and amass the friends and allies who rode with her.

Daenerys had risen from nothing; if she had conquered those who followed her, she’d win the hearts of the northerners too.

The portcullis’ hinges creaked, and before she had time to step forward, a figure emerged from the gates.

To her continuous astonishment, she felt the pounding of her heart accelerate. And although she knew the promise she had made the lady Sansa had reached him, Jon still dipped his head at her attention when he approached and called out “Your Grace,” to her.

“You do not need to call me so anymore.” The sight of him inadvertently brought a smile to her lips.

“You shall never cease to be my queen.” Her smile was returned to her in kind, and when he offered her his arm, she laced hers to his as if it had been the most natural gesture. She briefly wondered what he had come to discuss—for he did not always come to greet her at the gates— but for now, Dany simply relished in the moment, letting the quiet joy of it envelope her.

Instinctively, her steps were slowly guiding them back to Drogon and Rhaegal, both busy with personal grooming.

“It seems half the realm is starving,” Jon said.

“I have heard.”

To hear of it worried her. Ravens from her castellan at Dragonstone had told her as much. She had instructed the lords and ladies rallied under her banner to allow in the common folk as much as their stores’ capacities permitted it. Without her presence to oversee the situation, she could only hope their loyalty and obedience would prove true. In any case, it was still more done for the small folks than Cersei Lannister had done; King’s Landing had been barricaded for nigh on two years, and its gates had not opened once the snows had covered the realm in white.

“And it seems ravens from the capital have not returned.”

She could have almost scoffed, “A small wonder.” The idea to contact King’s Landing had not been one of her Hand’s better notions. It had been Tyrion’s idea, and although it had seemed a perfectly reasonable request at the time, Daenerys had realised he had come to her service brimming with resentment and bitterness towards his family, his every thought turned to ways to spite them. His design to contact Cersei had not been meant to advise Daenerys, but only to further his own goal for vengeance. Had she not seen the hatred he carried and how it influenced each of his actions, his vendetta might have costed her entire enterprise. Naming him the sole heir to  Casterly Rock and Warden of the West had somewhat quelled such urges. His claim was only as valid as hers, after all. And, quite obviously, the letters warning of the Wall’s fall and the imminent threat that came with it, urging Cersei to join forces with the rest of the realm had remained unanswered.

“Lady Sansa informed me there have been sightings. Wights seem to rise all around us,” she told him. “And, just now, as I was landing, I believe I have sighted some as well, roaming upon the snow.”

Of a common accord, every household had begun to immolate the bodies of the dead, lest they rise again and turn against the living.

Jon nodded, lost in  inquietude. Dany could guess what gnawed at him; despite the overwhelming number of wights, they still failed to locate their deadliest enemy.

What happened then startled Dany, replacing her own concern with bewilderment.

Rhaegal was approaching, his steps creasing the ground under him, and though she rose her hand to reach his snout, he was not coming towards her. He was nearing towards Jon, who had almost stumbled back, a bewilderment mirroring her own reflected on his face.

_Surely Rhaegal would not harm him while I stand here?_ She thought. Daenerys had known her dragons to let their nature rule them, yet they had never turned on her or one she considered kin, especially not when she was near.  Missendei herself had stood in their presence one such time, as Daenerys had climbed off Drogon, and had been unharmed.

Her dragons were so large, every motion of but their smallest body part provoked far-reaching sounds. The nostrils of Rhaegal's snoot audibly broke open wide and he sniffed at the air. There he stood, in fierce greatness of emerald and bronze, the shape of him dwarfing Jon and swallowing his shadow. Daenerys always marvelled at the sight and her heart swelled with pride, yet it was a spectacle she was accustomed to; she imagined it was quite another matter for Jon, who stood frozen at such a proximity.

Impossibly still, the earth boomed under them once again, and she watched as Drogon’s immense shape approached as well, the great muscles in his body roiling under him. His figure enshrouded them in darkness, for light in the sky was nigh absent. He stood higher than his brother, the pair of spikes crowning his large head wider and farther reaching. They were both a fierce sight to behold, and Dany smiled in satisfaction. When she rose her head to observe the sky, she managed to spot  Viserion still soaring in the clouds, the golden touch of his scales a clear contrast in the gloom.

Returning her attention to the situation, Daenerys decided that perhaps, they did not wish to harm Jon. She knew what behaviours they had when about to snatch a prey for she had often observed their hunting patterns; from their excited pouncing when they were no bigger than cats, to their fearsome attacks when they had reached the size of castles.  _ No_, she thought,  _ it rather appears to be... curiosity_.

And then, Daenerys remembered the last man whose company the dragons had accepted, and then, the  ironborn whose horn had coiled  Viserion around his finger.  Meereen already seemed a half-forgotten dream.

"Hold out your hand," she ordered Jon.

He eyed her in alarm, the bafflement upon his face deepening.

"Go on." She insisted. Dany had spoken with a tad more urgency; the dragons no doubt could smell Jon’s fear, and just as she had years ago in the fighting pits of  Meereen, Jon need act swiftly.

And he did. His confusion seemed to melt into resolve, and he removed his right gauntlet. His arm outstretched towards Rhaegal’s snout.

Dany’s stomach clenched and she held her breath as she watched in apprehension. Rhaegal sniffed at the air again. His great eyelids momentarily fell to cover his eyes, and when he opened them again, she saw the thin, inner protective membrane still covering his eyes.  _ Had he blinked? _

Only then did Daenerys allow herself to suck in a short breath, “I believe he likes you.”

“Gods be good,” Jon murmured. Unlike her, he had not allowed himself to breathe yet.

Because Daenerys had been schooled in Westeros’ history, she knew that her dragons were myths unexpectantly come to life, to Jon. “ _The last dragon died centuries ago and was no bigger than a cat,_ ” had Maester Marwyn told her. The man had ceased to think so the day she had allowed him near Drogon, and although he had been captivated by the sight of them, she imagined the tale of the dragons’ extinction must have permeated so far and deep that nothing could have changed it but her arrival to this land.

The fear Jon tried to conceal made his  fingers tremble when his hand came to rest against Rhaegal’s snout. Once more, the emerald dragon’s eyelids dropped lazily for just a moment, and all the while, Daenerys observed them both intently. She could see Jon’s fear gradually receding as the dragon accepted his touch. A growing curiosity replaced it instead, until some form of courage took Jon when he begun to scratch at Rhaegal’s snout in cautious motions.

_ A strange coincidence, to be sure, that this man I love is accepted by them_.  Daenerys’ gaze was fixated on their interaction. The wind was in  Jon’s dark hair, sending  it flying back, and a smile hinted at the corner of his mouth now. His mirth had even reached his dark, grey eyes as Rhaegal remained tranquil at the touch.

Dany observed Jon curiously. She peered at him, her gaze gliding over the shape of his jaw, then that of his nose, hoping it would somehow spark her memory. Hoping she would find some sort of resemblance, hoping she would understand.

It is pointless, she thought. Daenerys knew his body well, and she would not find her answers there.

A great hum echoed and vibrated onto the earth, and spread onto the air like a roar would, except this sound reached far deeper. It continued resounding forth, and Daenerys stared at her dragon. Once again, Rhaegal blinked.

And Dany let out a peel of laughter ring out from her lips, "He does like you."

Jon finally allowed the smile he had been restraining to colour his face, and he turned to gaze  at Daenerys, and she saw that her mirth  was  returned and shared, "Truly? Gods be good."

His laughter, his smile was contagious,  and  Dany could not help but smile wider and laugh harder, and before they knew it, they  were both absurdly  giggling upon the snow, Jon's hand still  pressed  against Rhaegal's snout.

And then, an idea struck her.

She knew Jon might come to mourn the state of his thighs afterward, yet all the same, Daenerys took his arm quite abruptly, ending the shared moment between him and Rhaegal.

"Dany?"

He barely had time to replace his gauntlet. Her reply came in the form of an enigmatic smile, and her hand twined into his, the touch blunted by the gloves they both wore. She led him to Rhaegal's side, as the dragon's long neck coiled and twisted to observe them  curiously. 

The emotions she could find hidden in her dragons' eyes always amazed  Daenerys .

"Oh, no. I cannot."

Daenerys' smile deepened, and she almost felt a girl of five. The alarm had returned to Jon's face as he watched her.

"You need not fear. If he has accepted your hand, he will accept you upon his back."

"How should I do this?" His joy had not entirely left, yet some of it had melted, leaving worry in its stead.

"You will hold onto the pair of spikes on his neck. They are certainly well placed." Dany had already observed all three of her dragons to know they all shared similar anatomic features and had always marvelled at how they had always seemed to fit her perfectly.

"Just so." The expression upon his face certainly did not agree with his answer.

"Go on."

" _Gods be good._ "

His  whole body now trembled, yet  when  he turned to face Rhaegal, his hands curled into fists. As if sensing their intentions, the dragon's massive shoulder bent and met with the ground.  Jon cast another uncertain  look towards Daenerys before attempting to climb on. To her relief, Jon seemed to instinctively place his hands and feet in the right places, before his leg arched around Rhaegal's back as he would on a horse.  Then, his hands found the pair of spikes she had spoken of.

In a swift flap of her furs, Daenerys joined her own Drogon and climbed on. Though they had already finished their daily flight, Drogon stretched and opened his wings at once when she seated herself upon him.

"When we return," she told Jon, her voice higher, "we ought to craft you a saddle."

Then, she whispered the word " _fly_ " her mother tongue, the language of Old Valyria, and once again, both dragons took flight.

Rhaegal left solid ground first. His wings unfurled in a shower of emerald, and standing on his hind legs,  he beat at the air, a swirl of dust and wind and snow gathering around him before his ascension.

Daenerys' lips stretched into a wide smile, her joy profound and reaching into her very core. _At last_ , she thought, _I have found him_. Then, Drogon leapt onto the air too, sending great waves of snow at his sides as he joined his brother.

And once more, the wind whistled at her ears and bit her cheeks. Drogon ascended swiftly into the air and his neck lunged forward while his wings folded against him, and instantly Daenerys understood this flight was a race for her Drogon as he swept towards his brother.

Together, they soared above the dark walls of Winterfell, and Dany wondered at the people below and what they must think. The four of them met and joined and danced above the castle, until they broke apart and flew away. A golden sliver of light appeared in the sky, and  Viserion emerged into view, joining them. And the race continued; Drogon roared a mighty call and both Rhaegal and  Viserion answered as well, filling the world with the force of their cry. 

Viserion and Rhaegal set to soar faster, their wings fiercely beating the wings, but there was no surpassing Drogon. She felt a twinge of guilt at the sight; though her Drogon had always been the fiercest of the three, she would always regret locking her dragons away and the damage it had done to their growth.

Soon, the great black dragon had reached the head of their procession and cried his triumph, while at her back, she heard a deafening bellow marking her dragons’ disappointment. Daenerys beamed at their exchange.

Now that he had won, Drogon’s fervour petered out. It seemed the game was over for him, and his flight slowed as he set to soar tranquilly upon the harsh winter wind. Then on, the dragons’ dance became fluid. Daenerys passed Jon clutching Rhaegal’s spikes with all his strength, and she saw  Viserion swiftly flying below, first gliding at his side, then reaching higher. All three of them exchanged places in smooth transitions as the flight continued; one moment, she was at  Viserion’s side, a minute afterwards, Drogon had glided away to Rhaegal’s side where she could observe Jon, and when their gaze crossed, she saw the fear mixed with elation in his eyes.

She knew all three dragons took joy in this shared flight, and Daenerys did as much as them. _This is where I was meant to be_.

The landscape around them grew ever whiter and mountainous, and she saw frost-covered valleys and hills, and trees coated in pristine, untouched snow. And suddenly, they were above a great, gaping precipice, all three diving against the wind at incredible speed.

Daenerys would have released her hold on Drogon's spikes if she could have, for the sensations of the fall were sublime to Daenerys, for it felt as though her insides were flying just as much as the dragons were.

Despite her furs, her cheeks almost grew numb with cold at the sudden gush of wind slapping her skin. But, before long, they reached the bottom of an icy canyon and were all soaring again, propelled by the dive’s wind. The canyon soon opened further and further, until it widened into a valley touched by a clear waterfall.

Drogon was the first to land in the open valley. The ground roiled and shook as he did, sending snow flying in all directions. Then, immediately afterwards followed Viserion. Circling above them, Rhaegal was the last to join them on the ground.

Jon descended from Rhaegal rather carefully. Each step taken made the snow creak under him.

"Are you well?"  She asked, a wide smile still upon her lips.

"Well enough but for those bruises I'll be waking up to on the morrow." Though he complained, elation danced in his eyes.

Dany chuckled at his words, and her hand came to find his.

"How was it, then?"

"Riding a horse will no longer feel the same."

"That is how it felt for me as well, when I first rode upon Drogon."  Though she still found joy in riding her silver, it  never did compare to being on  dragonback. She had come to prefer the comfort riding upon Drogon granted her.     


The dragons' shapes around them shielded them against the biting cold, and once again, as if it had been the most natural gesture, Jon pulled her close in an embrace, and Dany responded by pressing her lips to his.

He felt warm against her, as if the heat of him had seeped through their furs to envelop her. Daenerys pulled him closer, her fingers trailing his body to find clasped buckles and lines of fur joined together, and her hands slipped underneath to reach the smooth warmth of his skin.

His mouth opened under hers and his tongue felt as warm as the rest of him, and his own hands came to rest against her. Around them, she had spotted the dragons, wings folded and resting upon the snow, their bodies encircling their heated embrace in a protective cocoon.  Despite it, she knew the algid chill of the air would soon turn on them and they could not undress any further.

And still, Jon's hands came to wrap themselves around the small of her back, grabbing and pulling at her. Shivers coursed through Dany, though only a small part of it was the cold, and she found herself sighing at the touch.

It seemed a thousand years had passed when they broke apart, though their brows remained joined. She found in his eyes the same heat she  felt inside her, and as their gaze met, they were both giggling again, Jon's mouth stretched in a heartfelt smile. Dany could feel the warmth of his breath against her face each time he exhaled.

Her fingers were clumsy when she replaced and adjusted her gown and furs upon herself. Jon was not the first man she had shared her body with, yet never had truly experienced such a thing. Such as it had been, her union to Khal Drogo had woken her desire. And as for Daario... it had been desire still. Her affections for Jon differed so, that, each moment spent in his company always seemed to soothe something crackling within her.

He had finished dressing as well, and together, they neared towards the waterfall. 

Exhaling deeply, she let go of Jon's hand to stand on her own. The valley was utterly silent, safe for the dragons’ peaceful humming and the rush of the waterfall. Daenerys had found that snow had a way of absorbing all sounds of life around, and this place made her heart feel at peace.

It was an endless, perfect moment, one she wished to spend with no one else but Jon.

She turned to look at him, “We could stay here for a thousand years. No one would ever reach us.”

Dany knew the notion to be foolish, of course; they had far too many preoccupations and enemies to deal with for such a vision to come to pass, yet, nonetheless, she found she enjoyed the simplicity of the idea. 

“We could,” as he spoke, his brows knitted together pensively, “perhaps we would never lose each other, that way.”

“Jon? What is it?”

He cleared his throat before speaking, “I’ve had such a moment, in the past.” And he told her of the first woman he had been with, and of this love which had made him bear such guilt.

“The cave we were in was in a place much like this one.”

Daenerys joined him, and her head came to rest against his shoulder while he wrapped her in his arms. 

“Perhaps we truly ought to remain here, then.”

She felt him nodding, and, letting the lull of the moment carry her, Dany eyes’ flickered shut.

When at last, they parted from each other, the sun had moved in the sky to come west and neared towards the edge of the world.

“Dany,” Jon broke the silence, “I must tell you about someone.”

Daenerys voicelessly gazed at him, puzzled.

“It’s about the Night’s Watch former  maester. Do you know of whom I speak?"

She shook her head uncertainly. Although her education on the Wall and the Night’s Watch had focused on the reasons for its erection and then on its Lord Commanders,  Marwyn had briefly mentioned a man he had once studied with him at the Citadel, before that man had been sent to the Wall and had remained there for years.

Could it be...?

“He died, almost four years ago,” Jon began, “and his name was Aemon Targaryen.” For a moment, he observed the shock blooming on her face, before continuing with his story of how he had met an age old  maester when he had arrived at the Wall, whose wisdom had aided Jon often, until the very end.

“Sam will tell you the story better than I can. He was with him when he died.”

He died . Daenerys felt a pit open in her stomach; she felt as though she could reach out with her fingers, reach out through the void and somehow find herself at this man’s side, so that she may bridge the gap between life and death and time to speak with him.

To know a chance to meet another living kin had slipped through her fingers made guilt weigh on her shoulders.  _ I should have been here sooner_. 

“What were his last words?" She asked.

“Sam told me his fever dreams made him delirious. But he spoke of you. What Sam told me did not make much sense, truth be told, yet still, you should speak with him.”

Daenerys nodded firmly, “I will.”

She knew of Aemon Targaryen by name only, for it was part of another subject  Marwyn had favoured; her forebears. Upon their arrival at Dragonstone, they had procured scrolls cracked and browned by time, and gazed upon them to learn of her lineage. She had learned Aemon had been her great-uncle, and brother to her great-grandfather Aegon V Targaryen. When  Marwyn had shared stories of Aemon in his younger years, she had regaled in those tales, for they were her only window into the past since  Viserys had perished. Hearing so much of those that came before her even after her brother’s death had given Daenerys a broader image of her house. Learning what she had learned, from so many different people who had known her brother  Rhaegar, or even her father and mother, had helped her understand them all better.  


Learning of her lineage had made Daenerys feel both so small and so large. She was the last of her line and had sworn she would carry their legacy with her. They lived as she did, and they lived in her dragons. Though a part of Dany still dreamed of the house with the red door, she knew now she must continue what her ancestors have begun and do them proud.

She gazed at Jon, and found him searching her face, eyes keenly set on her. The gentle concern she found in those dark eyes always  touched her, and she almost felt a girl again. The one who had been under her brother's thrall. 

Yet, Jon had wiped all these memories clean from her, and had taken the fear away with them.

Though regret still pricked her, a smile broke over her face as she regarded Jon. “Thank you for telling me, Jon.”

He nodded at her. Dany looked at the sky and was saddened to see the day coming to an end.

“Perhaps we ought to leave,” she said.

Of course, she did not wish to. It was not how she wanted their thousand years to end; she wished time could stand still and cease its endless passing. Yet, what little light still seeped through the heavy blanket of clouds was beginning to vanish behind the horizon, and the cold seemed to enclose them. It was on nights like these that Daenerys feared the creatures made of ice.

Jon’s eyes were still kind when he nodded, and the pair of them returned to the dragons. They had been sleeping upon the snow, all three coiled around each other, and the size of them was so that, as Daenerys and Jon approached, the heat of their bodies was almost palpable.  Viserion and Rhaegal rose at the sight of them, and Rhaegal approached Jon once again, his nostrils opening to sniff at him. Dany wondered what new scent he could still discover.

Drogon himself still laid languidly on the ground, and though he had opened an eyelid to acknowledge her presence, he otherwise did not stir.

"Do you fear a second flight?" Dany asked in amusement.

"I will grow accustomed to it." And again, Jon regarded her warmly before climbing upon Rhaegal with more ease than before.

Daenerys, too, joined Drogon, and climbed as unceremoniously and indelicately as she could to rouse him from his rest. 

As she seated herself comfortably, she felt satisfaction at how used to riding she had grown; her motions were certain, and she felt secure in the saddle underneath her.

Without the need of instruction, all her dragons took to the skies once again in a shower of snow.

— ✦ —

When they reached Winterfell, its shape had become indissociable from the blackness of the world enveloping it. It was devoid of light and warmth and _ fire_.

Crowded around the castle gates were her  Khalassar and Unsullied, securely camping behind trenches protected by wheeled spikes and a wall of speers pointed outward. Her people greeted her as she passed, and she nodded at each of them in turn.

As they approached the  portculis , Daenerys saw a large pack of wolves prowling near the entrance. At its head was a pair of  direwolves of considerable size leading the pack; they were far more gigantic than the wolves following behind them, and while one’s fur was of a luxuriant grey, the other was as white as the snow it stood upon and its eyes were of a glowing blood-red. 

The dragons had already departed to their usual sleeping spot, and Daenerys and Jon were free to approach the wolves. Dany had to admit she was not quite certain how to react to them; she had grown accustomed to the wolves’ presence in Winterfell, for they belonged to Jon and his sister, yet she was not used to great beasts whose loyalties did not belong with her.

Still, as they approached, Ghost padded towards them gracefully and licked at Jon’s fingers when he showed the wolf his hand.

When they entered Winterfell, the  direwolves accompanied them in, but the rest of the pack remained behind.

The greater part of Daenerys’ court was present with the Great Hall when they entered. She nodded at Jon as he continued on his way, while she neared her advisers to properly greet them. They  certainely all offered an odd sight; detaching itself from the sea of blacks and grey of the Starks bannermen, a retinue of Tyrells were seated at the trestle table directly on the right of the alleyway leading to the  High table. Arianne of Dorne was seated at their sides, her own people surrounding her, and the sight of them was even more striking for the copper of their skin and the blackness of their hair. 

The Tyrells and the  Martells had been the first to join her cause; though Dorne had initially sided with the pretender, the one who had called himself Aegon, yet who had burned in his attempt to tame Rhaegal, they had begged a pardon at once, claiming it was always her brother Viserion and Daenerys who had been their first choice. They had only sided with Aegon believing him to be a true Targaryen. The  Martells had been Targaryen supporters since the Usurper’s rebellion and had laboured for years towards the restoration of her house. Theirs was an ancient house of Westeros, and Daenerys had known she required their support if she ever was to conquer the realm. 

She found it quite ironic, that, during her own ancestor’s conquest, Aegon had not managed to curve Dorne to his will yet had made King  Torrhen bend the knee. And yet, Daenerys’ own predicaments had been with the north, this time around, while Dorne had bent to her at once.

Once she had landed on Dragonstone, the island her ancestor had conquered for their house, it had been but a matter of time to arrange meetings, meetings that the power of King’s Landing had turned a blind eye to and would have been powerless to stop regardless; the realm had sunken under debts and no other great houses wished to be associated with the Iron Throne, the Great Sept of the Seven was an ashen ruin and all that reigned in the city was chaos.

Daenerys approached them all, conversing with Arianne in turn, and even sitting with them for a while.

She recalled words spoken by Magister  Illyrio, a lifetime ago it seemed, “ _Men drink secret toasts to your health._ ”  The man’s words had been for her brother, and they had been as honey to sweeten his ardour and growing impatience. Daenerys had never believed those words. And yet, they had proven true for the  Martells. It had proven true for the Reach. When she had landed in Westeros, her meeting with the lords and ladies of these houses had allowed a different world to spawn before her when she  had learned Arianne had been meant for her brother,  Viserys. Daenerys had believed all her life that each of her steps had been shadowed by the Usurper’s hired knives, and yet, she had found steadfast allies in Dorne. 

Leaving Arianne’s side, Daenerys went to the Tyrells, greeting  Garlan Tyrell as well. The one who had arranged this alliance, the Lady  Olenna, had surprised Daenerys with her mordant wits, yet underneath her cutting exterior, she had discovered a  somber woman with a bitterness in her which had been honed into a need for vengeance. Daenerys did not delude herself; she knew it had only been desperation which had driven the woman to her side, and that she must prove herself in order to truly gain the Reach’s loyalty.

Still, the Tyrell’s resources had bolstered her own brought from the other side of the Narrow sea. Theirs was also an ancient house, one Aegon had bound to hers in his conquest, and Daenerys knew she must do the same.

The Lady  Olenna was not present, for she had returned to  High  Garden the day Daenerys had marched north, but a good portion of their strength had come to join them as well, and her grandson,  Garlan Tyrell, stood among the retainers. It was with him Daenerys conversed the most before she moved on her way.

Farther within the hall was Asha of house Greyjoy, and her brother, Theon, sat at her side. Asha had been as lively and fierce as her brother had appeared broken, and she too had joined Daenerys. They had met in  Meereen after Asha had sailed her ships there to seek her support. When the  ironborn named  Victarion had come with his own ships and a mysterious horn to steal one of her dragons, he had burned under Drogon’s fire and his remains had been devoured by her dragons. His death, and particularly the manner of it had upset Asha and had temporarily soured their alliance. It had taken efforts to mend it, but by the time they had reached Westeros, news of another of Asha’s uncle joining the Mad Queen’s side had helped her return to Daenerys’ side.

Daenerys went to her as well, greeting her and exchanging japes of questionable nature with her, before, at last, she was free to take her seat at the  High table by Jon’s side.

As dishes were being served, Dany’s gaze swept all those sitting before her, and once again, she felt as though a great precipice had roiled and opened between her and everyone else. All the lords and ladies present knew each other; if not personally, then by name. Each had been instructed about the other in their childhood, by a  maester from the citadel assigned to their hold and house. Before her arrival in Westeros, Daenerys had not even known half of them; all she had ever heard were distant names and tales told in exile, tales whose truth had been twisted and hidden by her brother’s growing madness. Her instruction in  Westerosi traditions had been mediocre until  Marwyn had joined her service, and that had been at much later time of her life.

It felt as though her life had been built on tales.  _ The northerners have the right of it_, she thought,  _I am foreigner_.

Daenerys shook her head to chase away the thoughts. 

All she had ever wanted was a home.

Among the myriads of reasons which motivated her endless pursuit of the Iron Throne, amidst lofty ambitions and a keen sense of justice, at the heart of it, Dany was forced to admit that she had been lost wherever she had been. She had adapted everywhere, yet she had never been at home anywhere. She had been lost in  Illyrio’s manse. She had been lost in the Great Grass Sea, and she had been lost in  Meereen too. Though she had once chosen to remain in the exotic cities of Essos,  it had not served; their ways had been too foreign for her, as ironic as it was. They had proven too different from who she was. And though she had succeeded in calming the chaotic waves she had created there, it had never truly been where she belonged.

“Your Grace,” a voice called out at her right side, and Daenerys curved her head to see who it was, “I hope your day was well? Winterfell  remains at your disposal should you have need of anything.” It was the Lady Sansa who had spoken; it seemed to Dany that Lady Sansa had always given her smiles as cold as her eyes, yet, this day, she felt as though some of the ice had melted away.

“It is kind of you, Lady Sansa," Daenerys inclined her head, "You have offered me all the accommodation I could wish for."

Daenerys wondered how it was that no one had been named  to the regency of the north yet. She ought to ask Jon when they could steal another moment of privacy.

She continued to exchange pleasantries with all those seated at the table, until a break between dishes came. Then, Jon pointed with his chin towards a corpulent man sitting among the northerners, and both she and him excused themselves from the table.

“Sam,” Jon tapped the man clad in black on the shoulder, and he turned from his dish to look at who had called him.

“Oh, Jon.”

When he sighted her too,  Samwell Tarly rose from his seat at once and dipped his head low, “Your Grace.”

Daenerys was pleased by his greeting, and she politely nodded in return. She observed him; though he had studied at the Citadel, she saw only a few links to his chain, and his appearance was odd; he did not wear what  Marwyn had described as a novice’s robes, but the blacks of the Night’s Watch, an attire similar to Jon’s. His eyes were small and frightened, yet she  could not find a hint of  the cruelty and rigidity which had been in his father’s eyes when she had met him.

Jon spoke, “I’ve told her grace you might share  Maester Aemon’s last words with her?”

With seemingly great effort, Sam detached his eyes from Jon to turn to her, "Of— Of course, Your Grace!"

Daenerys found his behaviour quite amusing. _Am I so frightening?_ Dany glanced at Jon and found him smiling fondly, and she knew she need not worry.

"Perhaps we may step outside?" Dany did not want to be so surrounded  when she heard this story.

"Yes, Your Grace."

They walked through the Great Hall, nodding and smiling at all those present, and went to stand in the alleyway beyond the hall’s gates.

"Wh—What would your Grace like to hear?"

Daenerys’ hands came to lace  in front of her,  "Jon tells me  you were at Aemon’s side when he passed, and that he has mentioned me, at the end."

"He did, Your Grace."

Though Samwell still appeared frightened by her, he did his best to accede her request. With a trembling voice, he told her the story of Aemon Targaryen’s final moments. It was years ago, and although he had not entirely grasped the meaning of Aemon’s feverish words, he had remembered most of them and was able to retell them faithfully. Daenerys learned her great-uncle had believed her to be the one Melisandre’s prophecy had spoken of; this Azhor Ahai, the prince that was promised. She heard of how she and Aemon had shared dragon dreams; hers had ended after the red comet heralding the birth of her dragons had bled through the skies, yet it seems her forebears had been haunted by such dreams until the end of their lives, and knowing she had succeeded where no one else had bolstered her. Daenerys continued to drink in this knowledge; it was an echo of time she had never known, yet had always wished she belonged to, and hearing of it made her feel as though she could almost touch it.

Now that he had begun talking,  Samwell continued on to share the story of his arrival at the Citadel and of how he had met  Marwyn, and she heard again the tale of how her  maester had come to be at her side. Sam mentioned the obsidian candle burning in his quarters and of how strange it had appeared to him; Daenerys had always learned of the glass candle being imbued in the magic her ancestors had so commonly practiced, yet she listened intently. Then, he spoke of the maesters of the Citadel, and how they had seemed to hold little love for ancient and forgotten magic, how they had disapproved of Marwyn's departure and had threatened to take away his chains for it. Sam claimed to have overhead a conversation where two archmeasters desisted on the decision because of how fractured the realm had become.  


“Perhaps if we had arrived earlier to Oldtown, he might have met with the other  maesters, perhaps they could have done something...” Sam shook his head.

Daenerys shook her head, too, “No. The fault lies with this deserter, not with you,” she affirmed, “And, besides, my great-uncle had reached an advanced age and his hour was upon him. You are faultless in all this. I thank you for telling me this tale.”

Samwell gave a series of rapid nods. "How—how is my  family doing?"

"They are all well.  So  is their guests, I’m told.”  When last she had been at  Hornhill,  Lady Tarly had inquired after her son and given news of the wildling girl  they had sheltered.

Again, he nodded vigorously, "Thank you, Your Grace."

When they returned to the Great Hall, Daenerys found it odd to see so much laughter in the room. She and Jon returned to the high table; Jon was seated directly the Lady Sansa's left, while Dany was sat right to Jon. She had not been pleased by the arrangement, when she had first arrived; the seat was not one of honour, as she was seated practically at the end of the table, yet the more she had been around the Lady Sansa, the more she understood. And, besides, she had returned to the reigns of the north to house Stark; it meant that she was here solely as a guest, one of note, but a  guest, nonetheless.

Dany inhaled deeply, her eyes drinking the view of the jubilant Great Hall and its exuberant outbursts of mirth. Most of the northerners made it a point not to cross gaze with her, but the little who did, briefly nodded at her before returning to their meal.

Perhaps it was not a home yet, but it could be. 

One day, her woes would end, and she would be safe at last.

Just when Daenerys reached for her cutlery, a man came roaring into the Hall and all voices hushed at his entrance.

"My Lady Sansa," the man cried, "there is a young man at the gate, seated upon an odd chair,” he paused for breath, before resuming, “My Lady, there is a wolf, a giant wolf at his side. He claims to be...”

The man had barely finished speaking that the Lady Sansa had sprung from her seat, sending her auburn hair flying about her shoulders and hurrying down the length of the hall. At her heel was a man of impressive height, bearing a trail of scars upon his face, and an armoured woman of blond hair which could only be Brienne of Tarth.

Lady Sansa’s steps were so swift that, just in the space of a heartbeat, she was already at the hall’s entrance, with her great cloak of grey furs billowing at her back. As soon as she had risen, others had followed suit; joy had already vanished across the trestle tables, and they all marched after the Lady of Winterfell with the same haste.

Daenerys could only feel puzzlement at the sight, yet when she turned to gaze at Jon, he too had stood up and the same look was in his eyes. He ran after his half-sister, and so Dany followed along with the rest of the great hall.

The courtyard was white and silent. Fresh snow was drifting down hard, covering everything and hushing their steps despite the number of people streaming out of the castle. At the centre of the courtyard was the young man the messenger had spoken of; a girl with black hair stood at his side, and she looked haggard and weary, and between them was a wolf of size only comparable to Ghost or  Nymeria. It was then that Daenerys understood. She gazed at the chair upon which the young man sat, and it was odd indeed, and its design resembled something Tyrion might have conceived for  it reminder her almost of her saddle dragon sadle. When, finally, her eyes fell upon the man’s legs, useless and tied together, a name formed on her lips.

When Daenerys Targaryen rose her head, her gaze inadvertently met his, and the look hidden in the blue of his eyes sent a shudder down her spine. Their colours alone frightened, for they reminded her of the descriptions she had heard of their greatest enemy. Those eyes were shrewd, and piercing, and all-seeing. His gaze was heavy and bore into her, and spoke of secret knowledge, and it was as if he had gazed into her very soul with but one glance. His mouth did not smile, but his eyes  _ saw_.

And suddenly, the moment was gone. Sansa had leapt on him, embracing him fiercely.

All around Daenerys, one name resounded forth; " _Bran! It's Bran!_ "   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my version of the canon, both Randyll and Dickon Tarly are alive. Initially, I was going to kill off Randyll and leave Dickon as heir, but then something kept bugging me so I reread some canon material to make sure my decision made sense... and it didn't. In retrospect, I think the show killed off the Tarlys only to create a moral conflict between Dany and Sam (and thus Jon), and also to slow down Daenerys' progress towards taking the Iron Throne; for anyone not reading the books, or who has forgotten some of the facts, house Tarly followed the Tyrells who sided with house Targaryen during Robert's rebellion. Then, the Tyrells sided with Renly during the war of the five kings, then, when the Tyrells sided with the Lannisters, the Tarlys did the same thing. I see absolutely no legitimate reason for Randyll Tarly to suddenly lose his mind and side against Daenerys when house Tyrell actually supports her. Hence, they're all alive, things are kept in character, and everyone's happy.


End file.
